Beautiful Music

My fingers drummed over the steering wheel as On the Mend by the Foo Fighters played quietly. I needed some inspiration and I was headed home to get it. My roomate and I had been thrown together in a desperate situation, but I found that her poetry made my songs much better than I could on my own. I only had to work out the details of telling her that I had not only read her work, but that I had written songs with what her words made me feel.

She would most likely go postal on me. I had to find the right way to tell her, that was for sure. Some of my songs had taken on a jealous tint, but I couldn't help it. Most of her work was about some guy that must be blind, because he didn't see her at all. 'As aware of my existence as soil is of the heat that boils underneath.'

She was amazing. And I was totally head over heels, but she'd made it totally clear that we would be roomates and nothing more, never anything more. The only thing that kept me from groaning was the fact that I had so often already, but I dragged a hand through my hair anyways. I couldn't push her, that would be cruel. Both so stuck in the current situation as we were. Maybe in two years... I let myself drift off into the fantasy, my only comfort.

I began to whistle on the way up the stairs, she shouldn't be home for another hour, I would have plenty of time to myself. I stopped right outside the door, music was playing inside. That meant one thing, she was in fact home. What the hell? With perfect 20/20 recolection I could picture my song book right where I had left it that morning, square in the middle of the coffee table. She wouldn't-would she? I sucked in a breath, crossed my fingers, and opened the door with my free hand.

My eyes widened even as I wanted to slam them shut.
"What - are - you - doing?" I let out in distinct breaths. Head jerking up her red brown hair whipped as she met my eyes.
"Tim," she greeted, lips pressed into a line of anger.
"Clara?" I asked levelly with my last store of oxygen. I closed my lips over empty lungs, breathing not possible. It was as if death had swept into the room right behind me.
"I think-" she paused, letting the leather bound book spill from her fingers, "that I should have asked you the same a long time ago." Shit. She had seen, immediately my mind flew into a frenzy as I sucked oxygen down my throat. I opened my lips in preparation to try and explain myself, these actions.

She stood in one motion, jerking herself up as she straightened her spine. I flung my hands wide,
"Wait-I,"
"What?" the word tilted to me, taking my breath.
"Just wait!" I pleaded as she moved to pass me. "Wait, wait, please just wait. Please just-don't go. Wait, just stay." The words pooled around me squirming desperately in the air.
"For what?"
"I had to-Please, I needed-I needed to know."

"But it was mine." She advanced, I had nowhere to retreat to. "And you-you took it-and you turned it into something-"
"Something what?" I asked, shoulders slumping in my early defeat. Her eyes closed as she frowned. I moved closer without meaning to.
"Beautiful," she whispered. Her eyes opened, taking in how close I was she turned for her room, moving quickly. I was shocked to a stand still, the unexpected word sweeping over me and pressing down. After a moment I managed to follow.

"I don't understand," I admitted, calling out to her.
"You weren't supposed to read my journal! Even if it was only poetry, you weren't supposed to know the things that I wrote down in there. It's private, the quintessential part of me," she growled at the wall, refusing to look at me. I moved through the door and leaned against her dresser, pressing my palms against the sharp edge of it. I needed to keep myself grounded.
"Don't you see?" I asked softly, "I had to know."

"Why? Everything that I wrote was already about-" she cut off suddenly and I again had trouble maintaining my air flow.
"What?"
"Nothing- I-" she stopped again and I blew out a hurried breath.
"Who?" I questioned with the exhale. The word struggled on the limited breath, coming out low and stressed.
"It doesn't matter right now. He certainly isn't here. Just," she threw a hand over her eyes, "you shouldn't have done it. I can't-I have to go."

Rolling with the pain of her words I forced my mouth to move, to speak.
"Don't!" I moved fully in front of the door, blocking any escape. "If it had been anyone else, would it have been so bad?" She met my eyes and carefully said,
"No."

"Well then don't you think that you're being a little rash?" Oops, I had not meant to say that part aloud.
"What!?" She shrieked, crossing to me faster than I thought she could.
"Well, it's just- I mean, you did the same thing!"
"Tim, your songs are totally different."
"Why?" I questioned, completely caught on her poor logic.
"Because, they're good."
"Really? You think so? Wait-that is not the point. Don't distract me. Your poems are amazing," I breathed.

"Stop trying to flatter me."
"As I recall it's only flattery if it works."
"Who's doing the distracting? You're the one in trouble! I am leaving. Move please."
"No."
"Tim!"
"I said no."

"I am really tempted to slap you in the face right now."
"Say what you want," I offered, "but I am 'as immobile as the shores under the tide.'"
"You. Did. Not." Any other time I would have smiled. Any other time.

I met her eyes, crossing my arms as a more visual sign of my defiance. Her eyes blazed a blue that I had never seen before and her hand flew across the space, striking my cheek. The flesh on my face immediately compacted under the impact. Before I could even feel the sting she had covered her mouth with her hands, eyes wide in disbelief. "Oh Tim, I am so sorry. I didn't mean to, well- actually. No, I shouldn't have done that." I had been blindesided. I half stepped half fell to my earlier position leaning against the dresser.

"You slapped me. You actually slapped me." She took half a step forward.
"I know. You just made me so angry! I couldn't help myself."
"Well I couldn't just let you leave!"
"Why not?"
"Honestly Clara! Are you-" I stopped, the word blind curling on my tounge, "asking me that?" I closed my eyes wishing I could start the day all over again.
"Does it hurt badly?" she asked, her voice drawing closer.
"No," I answered immediately. "I'll have to teach you to throw a punch sometime." I opened my eyes again to see her not even a foot away.

"Yeah, sure." I pushed myself off the dresser.
"I'm sorry that I read your poems, I shouldn't have done that," I offered. Her hand flicked up, in a half indecisive motion, running over my cheek. "Feels better already," I muttered.
"Oh really?" she questioned dryly.
"Yeah." She pushed onto the balls of her feet, raising her about two inches, and looked at the side of my face for a longer moment. God, she was only half an inch from kissing me. Did she even realize? I swung my head a fraction, moving my lips just the slightest bit closer to hers. I knew that I should not be doing this. It was an exquisite torture, but in the moment I felt so damned alive. Desperately so. Her hand moved over my cheek again and I groaned.
"I'm sorry!"
"Clara, you didn't hurt me," I repeated.
"Then why?"
"Because I want to do this," I muttered sliding my lips where they most wanted to be.

My hands found her spine and pressed her up to answer the curve that my own was making. Her arms wound around my neck as she responded. Whether it was a miracle or just plain being in the righ place at the right time I didn't care. I was finally kissing my dream girl.